


10 After The End

by minuseven



Category: Worm (Web Serial Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Censorship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parahuman Feudalism, Unthinking Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minuseven/pseuds/minuseven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, the world as we knew it ended.<br/>It was the apocalypse.<br/>Ragnarok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	10 After The End

When I moved into the Peak, I had my bed positioned so that the first rays of dawn would hit me and rouse me, but by now the routine is so engraved that I just wake up before sunrise. So I sat up in the dark and watched the sun rise. The celestial sphere rises slowly over the horizon, turning the water below and the sky above red. Its rays hit the hills first and flood my room, among others. Then it’s a slow progression of colours, reflecting onto the clouds and the port town down below me. The metal roofs gleam, the boats cast long shadows. The Peak is too high up the hills that surround the bay to see much more than those faraway glimmers, but I remember living down there on the Docks. It’s a chaotic jungle, a mess of metal, cloth and wood, cables and nets lying around everywhere in its narrow streets and canals. It’s a sprawling ghetto of scavenged steel and a magnificent Venice at the same time. Floating boat-houses sway and precarious constructs are supported by underwater pillars, resting in the ruins of concrete that emerge depending on the tides. We lived in a metal shack, wedged in between two warehouses that blocked the sunrise and kept it cool during summer and freezing in winter. There was the small terrace behind the house where Dad taught me the stars and the rusting walkway that served as a street in front that creaked more and more with every year.

 

I wonder how everybody is doing, for a moment. Then I get up and forget about it because the sun will soon be halfway up. It’s time for my chores.

 

Before leaving our house, I air my covers and have some breakfast. Dry rice and fruit, leftovers from yesterday. The floorboards are wooden underneath my bare feet and, as always, the sensation is wonderful. I change into a pair of pants and my work tunic. It’s starting to get short, because I just can’t seem to stop growing, but it’s not threadbare enough for me to feel comfortable asking for a new one. I know I could, and probably will have to soon enough, but the idea of changing clothes that don’t absolutely have to be changed makes me uncomfortable. You’d think a year at the Peak would change that, but I suppose it’s more ingrained in my character than what I’d like. I cinch the large belt around my thin waist, affix my bag and gloves to it. The ensemble looks ridiculously large with my body type. My boots, resting in the house’s entrance, are the last to be put on.

 

Outside, the neat and arranged houses of the Peak greet me. They’re far bigger than anything you’d find on the hillsides or much less on the Docks, unless you count communal housing. They’re all more or less the same, with two storeys, a porch and a small front garden. Some call it suburban, whatever that means. They’re also made of stone, metal and wood. You can’t find all three materials used in any non-important buildings, but everybody at the Peak is important, and so are their houses. Like me and my dad and our house.

 

It was a little over a year ago that we got moved into the Peak. Jumped social strata like crazy, from lowly dock-dwellers to the elite living on the top of the hills that towered over the Bay. Triggering did that to you. Apotheosis naturally included a reserved spot on Olympus. And dad took me with him. That day, he told me to grab everything we owned and, rucksacks filled with our meager possessions, we climbed the roads to the Peak and were admitted inside its walls. He had gone to the Kaiser and pledged his services. Dad could control fish, and that made him critical to the livelihoods of the Bay’s people. With him, our boats could catch four times as much than before and only the useful fish too. Enough to feed. Enough even to trade. He was to be protected and so was I, as his daughter.

 

Dad’s at sea right now and he isn’t expected to return for another couple of days. It’s one of the longer trips, the ones that leave the zone around the Bay proper and venture into more dangerous waters. I look up, trying to decipher a pattern of weather. No such luck of course. The sky’s mostly clean above us, but all bets are off on the ocean. I mutter a quick prayer, for protection against Jormungand. It’s Dock superstition, low-class, but never has Dad’s boat run into the sea serpent when I prayed.

 

“Admiring the sky Taylor? That’s not like you. Usually you have your nose buried in a book.” My neighbour comments.

 

I blush despite myself, because it is true, books are wonderful things and I am fully taking advantage of their accessibility at the Peak, and quip back. “Just admiring the colour. The nice. Blue. Colour.”

 

The Peak is actually protected by a forcefield and as a result of that, the sky looks tinged blue from under it. So do the clouds. I don’t remember myself, but those that are old enough tell us that before, the sky was blue. Apparently having blue above their heads is comforting but I don’t understand it myself. It sounds just a little bit silly, because the sky is grey, sometimes green, and that’s all there is to it. You just have to look up. But they hit you when you start spouting nonsense like that, so it’s an opinion best kept to yourself. A lot of opinions are best kept to yourself in the Kaiser’s city.

 

Mark chuckles sadly and I immediately feel kind of bad for shoving the apocalypse in his face. He’s a nice guy who doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly, even if I know he is responsible for guarding the houses on this zone of the Peak with his powers. Mark leans back in his rocking chair, the one I’ve never seen him leave, making the boards on his porch creek. “That’s right Taylor.” He flicks some of his long hair behind his ear. “A nice colour... You shouldn’t tardy thought, the sun’s rising.”

 

Yes, it looks like I made him sad again. I take my dismissal with grace and run. The uphill streets of the Peak already have people up and about. My path takes me to the middle of the Peak, where the ocean view is obstructed by the mountaintop and the gigantic tree on top of it.

 

Apparently, I lost more time than I realized because when I get to the cafeteria, it’s nearly empty. Only some of the Peak’s children are still present, most having already gone to their own chores. It’s here that the unpowered or unemployed members of the Peak gather every morning and are assigned the tasks that nobody wants to do but everybody knows need doing. Usually by drawing straws. I’m the third eldest, since most kids here trigger young.

 

Behind the counter, book open in front of her, Othala throws me a very unimpressed look. It’s all the more unnerving because one of her eyes is fixed and milky white. I hurry faster.

 

“I’m late, aren’t I?”

 

“Yes.” She points at a tray with food on a table near her. It’s the most mouth-watering breakfast I have ever seen, proof that it had to be Victor to make it. It also means that it’s completely nutritionally balanced and poison-free. Finally, it means I had drawn the short straw. Or rather, been given the short straw since I wasn’t there to protest. Guess today is Harvest day for me.

 

I sigh and grab the tray. “Is there anything special I need to tell her?”

 

Othala shakes her head. “Not right now, but come back at lunch time.” Which probably means even more things for me to do later. I won’t have time to swing by the library today, will I?

 

I don’t mind Harvest. Hell, how could anybody? She’s good company, if just a little bit creepy. She knows all sort of stuff too, having lived in the Peak since forever. Art, music, literature, science. Talking to her is a pleasure, there’s not a topic she can’t at least give an opinion on. And she’s nice. But being on Harvest-duty means actually taking part of the physical harvest. It means bending down, reaching up, climbing trees, throwing fruit, cutting yourself on stray branches and occasionally crawling through mud. By the end of the day, you’re sore in places you didn’t know could be sore and crashing on the bed feels like a mercy.

 

The cafeteria is a communal building that was built with one wall into the mountain face. The kitchen is actually built inside the hill, with the ventilation shafts drilled into the rock. It’s a refreshingly cool place when there’s no cooking to be done but, as I’d attested to during my turns on kitchen duty, it got almost unbearably hot when the stoves get lit. And at the end of the kitchen, there are several doors. One leads to the cold storage room. Another to the regular pantry. And when you open the last, there’s a spiraling stairwell that descends into the rock. It’s not very long and soon you arrive at a gate of forged iron, with patterns of leaves and roses. In an utilitarian world like ours, it stands out as being of remarkable craftsmanship and artistry. But it fits somehow, because beyond it dwells Harvest.

 

Harvest, the reason why the Bay is an actual city, why it can support so many people. She’s the reason why Kaiser rules over the surrounding region and towns around the Bay pay him tribute. Why people flock to his city, enticed by the promise of sustainment. I can attest to that. Not even the dock-dwellers went hungry. She’s the person protected the most zealously, so much that she’s never left that room of hers. And why not? The ground around the bay is dry and arid, either too salty or too filled with junk to grow anything useful. Agriculture takes too much effort. Too much time, too many resources. What if bandits attack your farm, or the unpredictable weather ruins your crops? You would go hungry and die out there. But that’s exactly Harvest’s power. Plants grow around her. Rice needs no paddies, flowers blow, thick trees you need both arms to hug grow in a matter of days. Be it simple grass or complex fruits, Harvest can make it grow in the blink of an eye.

 

I don’t actually know what her ‘real’ name is. Kaiser calls her Demeter. I think she’s more of a Persephone. But there are opinions best kept to yourself.

 

I push open the gate, balancing the tray with one hand. Harvest’s room is a cave. A cavern, a hollowed out bit of the hill, a room bigger in scope than anything I’ve ever seen built. You could fit everybody from the city in here. It extends in front of me, underground fields of greenery and trees. I can see golden wheat, ready to be collected to one side, and a small forest of orange trees near a wall. At the end of it, the cavern walls open to outside, on the other side of the Peak’s hills. You can see the sunrise over the sea and the rest of the Bay. It’s a long drop down though, so it’s best not to get too close to the edge, even if Harvest’s plants would catch me. I wondered once how didn’t the mountain simply crumble with this huge hole in it and Harvest explained there were some very sturdy roots holding it together. The roots of the Yggdrasil tree cresting the Peak, more precisely, which Harvest maintains.

 

And it’s bright. Very bright. That’s because the roots lining the cave walls and ceiling, the ones that keep this place from collapsing, hold a myriad of mirrors and lenses. The little light that enters through the shafts in the ceiling and the natural window on the far end is focused and multiplied hundreds of times in a genial way. The effect is so well planned that it looks brighter inside than outside already. Victor’s work, I’d bet.

 

I descend just a couple more steps before finding Harvest herself. She’s sitting on her usual tree stump, knees pressed to her chest, watching the sunrise. Her hair, brown, curly and long enough that it reaches her knees, is entangled with twigs and sprigs, small leaves here and there. I can never tell if any of them actually grow from her. She’s willowy, and her eyes are bark brown. Everything about her reminds me of nature in a tangential way. People that got powers after the apocalypse tend to be like that. Different. The same way dad moves fluidly and the skin around his neck seems fold into gills when the light hits him the wrong way. The way his eyes are blue now.

 

Next to her, a woman in light armour, leather painted white, stands guard. Purity is usually her bodyguard like today, because she can make the sunlight in the cave last for longer. She gives me a nod and a smile. I’ve seen her stop by Mark’s house more than a few times so she knows me better than most, I suppose. She’s friendly.

 

“Morning.” I offer Harvest the food-laden tray. Then I gesture to the cassette player that’s filling the air with the grave notes of a string instrument. “What’s playing?”

 

She accepts the food with her usual half-smile. The reddish light from the sun washes out the freckles on her face. “Thank you. It’s Bach.”

 

I listen for a moment. There’s only one instrument I can hear and it’s not sharp enough to be a violin. “Viola?”

 

“Cello. Suite One in G Minor actually.” She corrects me before starting on those delicious-looking scrambled eggs. She shares with Purity too, damn it.

 

I sigh and reach for the darkened goggles inside my belt bag. “There are no special requests from upstairs so... Where do I start?”

 

**###**

 

By lunch time Othala has sent me on another perilous quest to deliver food. It’s hot stew in a earthen bowl and I’m supposed to take it to the pound. I can’t think of any individual that would have any reason to eat in the pound and it sends shivers up my spine.

 

The pound is a squat, solid metal building where the guard dogs sleep. I know Jonathan, Whistler, works there. He helps train the canines that patrol the areas around the Bay and even inside the city’s walls. His power helps with that. But Jonathan always eats with us in the cafeteria. I’m fairly sure I saw his tattooed head there before Othala sent me scampering. So I’m left hoping that I’m not going to deliver food to what I think I am. I’m sure it prefers raw meat over stew. Unless I’m the raw meat. This is ridiculous. I’m not going to be eaten. I just don’t want to be in the same enclosure as Wehrwolf, nobody in their right mind would want to. I slide the heavy door open with a groan. It needs to be oiled. The pound is apparently empty, only the barks of a couple of dogs marking any life in it. I can’t imagine how anyone could eat in here, with the smell of wet fur, dog piss and shit ingrained into the very walls. Probably why Jonathan eats elsewhere. The space isn’t as well illuminated as it could be and I step carefully, mindful of any uncleaned shit. Should I call out? The metal walls feel oppressive around me.

 

Then I round one of the cylindrical pillar supporting the structure into an enclosure and find myself face to muzzle with the Wehrwolf itself. I freeze and by luck alone do I not lose my wits and drop the stew. Faced with a wild animal, the instinct is fight or flight, but humans usually freeze before resolving the situation inside their own heads. Combat training helps with that, Harvest explained to me once. I have only the very bare bones of self-defense and all I can do is realize that moving will probably end badly. I hold my ground and during agonizingly long seconds I am close enough to count the Wehrwolf’s individual whiskers, every hint of deadly fangs hidden by its lips.

 

“Ah, you brought the mutt’s food?” A voice comes from behind the beast. “Give her some space Wolf, I wanna talk to her.”

 

Wehrwolf grunts and grabs the bowl from my hands briskly, then turns and walks away. I allow myself to breathe again. Cautiously, I take a step into the enclosure. Wehrwolf growls and its a sound that should never come from a human throat, not that it’s exactly human anymore. It doesn’t stop me either. It just stalks to a corner where a pair of enormous dogs lie and crouches down, holding the bowl protectively. Away from me, I can see it and once more I am both amazed and a little bit sick to my stomach. I can see it was once female, in the shape of the torso, but the trigger changed that. A mane of wild brown hair, barely tamed by a rigorously geometrical trim, sticks out of its head and continues growing where human hair wouldn’t grow, covering its face, shoulders and part of the upper body. Likewise, the hairs a person would have on their forearms and lower legs are so thick they count as legitimate fur. That’s not to mention the hunched way it holds itself, the almost ridiculously large ears, the dirty long nails and unnaturally sharp teeth. It even has proper whiskers. It only wears the lower part of a tunic, something like a skirt, and a loose, heavy chain like a necklace.

 

The person that spoke before is standing ramrod straight on the other side of the room, yet despite her impeccable posture somehow manages to look relaxed. Easily as tall as me but stockier with muscle, she makes me look like a stick in comparison. I recognize her as Victory in a heartbeat. Easy when she’s wearing her armour, plate and chainmail and all. Her halberd and shield are slung over her back. She’s taller than me, blond hair pulled into a ponytail and piercing, shiny blue eyes. Victory is Mark’s daughter and part of the forces that defend the city. When she starts glowing, she’s super strong and invulnerable. My eyes automatically dart to the pale scar that runs from her left temple to right cheek. She got those powers in a cage fight. I’m glad I’m too old to be sent to the fighting rings to trigger. That dad’s power is not suited for confrontations and it wouldn’t be guaranteed that I would get powers if I was put under stress through conflict. You hear stories about them. Bloody gladiatorial stories. I can only imagine how many more scars Victory has under her armour.

 

I already know why she wants to speak with me too. It’s an open secret between us younger members of the Peak that Victory regularly finds whoever got assigned to Harvest duty and asks about Harvest herself. Nobody’s sure why though. Is it love? Is it something else? It fuels gossip like nothing else.

 

“You were with Harvest today. How was she?” As predicted, a statement and the question.

 

“Well, she was listening to Bach. Hum, that’s cello music, like a bigger violin. Purity was with her today. She looked okay.” Lonely too, but that's a staple and not worth worrying Victory with. I search my mind for more things. “She’s growing strawberries for tonight’s dinner. I think she’s run out of books too, since she didn’t read anything. Today. That I saw. She seemed a little distracted? Uh, that’s it.”

   

Victory’s eyes are somehow sad. “I see. Thank you.” She closes them and breathes deeply. Then she bows at the waist, another thing I already knew was coming. This isn’t the first time Victory has accosted me for news on Harvest. “Don’t tell anybody I spoke with you.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Wehrwolf grunts from its corner. It’s glaring at me and I feel the urge to step back. What did I do to it?

 

Victory huffs. “I was the one that wanted to talk to her.” Then she turns to me, a tight smile on her lips. “Wolf doesn’t like people in her space. You should go, I’m sure you want to eat yourself.” She somehow manages to not make it sound dismissive and I take the opportunity to walk away very quickly.

 

I know Wehrwolf is tame, but I don’t care how solid the collar the Kaiser has slung around its neck is, or how Victory could totally subdue it. The primal part of my brain is telling me to get very far away from that predator.

 

**###**

 

Adapting to life on the Peak was weird. I still had chores, still had work to do, but at the same time everything was so different. School was much smaller and rigorous. I also couldn’t skip, but that wasn’t really a reason to complain. I liked learning. On the other hand, we could argue our way out of doing our assigned tasks. People didn’t wallop you if you scrubbed the floor the wrong way. They didn’t pay you for it though, tasks were communitary service. The meals were grand and filling. The nights were quiet.

 

I made friends.

 

I watched my father smile more often.

 

I’m not quite sure why I am reminiscing about those strange first months, when everything I did was wrong on some social level. Probably because I haven’t run away from somebody like I did from Wehrwolf ever since I got here. There’s nobody to really run away from at the Peak. It’s civilized here. I might have to grovel a bit if I bump into somebody really important, like that one time with Krieg of all people, but there’s no real danger. No beatings or thrown things.

 

I sigh and clean the sweat from my forehead with the back of my work glove. Picking strawberries is a bending down kind of work and my back is starting to complain. It doesn’t help that me and a couple of other hardworking souls were reaping the wheat before, and that is a long, tough work. But it’s better than carting around the bags with grain and I think Harvest gave me this task because she saw how tired I was. Like I said, nice. With my goggles on, I can see Purity floating above the underground fields and even distinguish her expression amidst the glare of her powers. It goes from bored to pained in a flash. She drops downs and fires a blast in my general direction. No, towards the window cut into the rock. I’m already throwing myself down, covering my head with my arms. Branches and vines burst from the ground around me, forming a shrub-like dome to protect me. There are screams and noise of lasers firing and impacting rock. I think I saw blood on Purity’s white armour. Something’s on fire.

 

We are under attack.

 

I rip off my goggles and crawl forward. I have to get to Harvest. She has to be the target. I don’t know what I’ll do but I can’t just stay here. The noises that have been ringing in my ears resolve into something more coherent. I can see the battleground that the cavern has become. A figure made out of fire is in the middle of the fields, setting everything ablaze with hands like flamethrowers. An incredibly thin person, almost spindly in appearance, dances in and out of the reach of animated vines. Purity has taken to the air again, glowing brighter than ever.

 

“Stalker! On Purity!” I don’t recognize the voice that’s coming somewhere from behind me.

 

The thin person, woman or girl, jumps high towards Purity, daggers out. A cape and form-fitting robes don’t hide enough of her and I can see her brown skin even through the growing smoke.

 

Niggers. Black people.

 

Kaiser is selective about the people who can and can’t live in the Bay. Black-skinned aren’t part of the fortunate ones. They aren’t welcome in his territory and I’ve only seen niggers twice before. One drowned man the people at the docks fished from the ocean, and that time a fool tried to attack the city and the Kaiser made an example out of him. He was impaled and shown off on a square for a couple of days, but I saw him before the corpse started to smell and they took it down.

 

And these guys are attacking. Kaiser is going to have their heads on a platter. No. Reinforcements are too late, they must have set up a distraction somewhere else. They attacked here, at the core of the Kaiser’s domain. They found a way to sneak in, past the guards and dogs, force fields and tinker tech protections. They have to have a way out. And now we are the ones trapped, up against the wall in this enclosed space. And no one in their right mind would kill Harvest, she’s too valuable. This is an abduction.

 

Somebody yells. “Torch! On the ground!”

 

That’s all the warning I have. I don’t even think it’s somehow aimed at me before a blast of heat and fire throws me into the air and rolling away. The world spins. The world hurts. My skin is torn and burnt. I open my eyes and twitch feebly. I can’t move, only watch helplessly as the figure made of fire approaches. It stops, looking at me. Why is it taking so long to… end me?

 

The fire recedes into her skin until I can see the cloth large on undernourished limbs, the pale scarred skin and bright eyes, the literally fiery red hair. The unbelievable familiar lines of her face.

 

**###**

 

Ten years ago, the world as we knew it ended.

 

It was the apocalypse.

 

Ragnarok.

 

It was then that the golden man went insane. Or maybe he just opened his eyes and saw how disgusting humanity really was.

 

I was five years old, I don’t remember much. But I remember the sky became so bright it hurt to look at. I remember the earth under my feet scream so loud that covering my ears wasn’t enough. I remember I had said goodbye to mama that morning and gotten a kiss on the cheek. I remember being dropped with my best friend in kindergarten.

 

I know that Dad got to me just in time. I know I lost the grip on my best friend’s hand and she was taken by the panicking crowds. I know Dad and I ran like crazy, trampling over other people. I know there was a huge blast from the sky and the college where mama worked got vaporized. I know islands were destroyed. I know entire countries were broken. I know that dust rose into the sky in gigantic mushroom clouds. I know the poles melted and there were tidal waves everywhere. I know earthquakes shook continents for days on end. I know fires ravaged entire landscapes.

 

I know Brockton Bay sunk into the very bay that gave it its name. I know that parahumans fought for control of the land and sea. I know that the heroes lost. I know that many people died, that Dad did everything and anything for me, that we were the lucky ones.

 

I know the vengeful god stopped appearing to destroy things in golden flashes that brightened the sky and thundered across the world after a few months.

 

I know that it was already too late after that. The sky was grey and green and opaque, the seas were dark and poisonous. The land was black and white and dead. Seasons were no longer clockwork. Weather became a game of chance. The very monsters that haunted humanity before became subdued.

 

Earth wasn’t quite dead yet, but it was very deeply wounded.

 

I remember some of that. A little. But I know…

 

I never saw mama again.

 

I never saw my best friend again either.

 

**###**

 

“Taylor?”

 

“Emma?”


End file.
